


Splintering

by astropulvis



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Eva is a witch - AU, Gen, Vergil's book is a Grimoire - AU, vergil has did - dissociative identity disorder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 00:02:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28786896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astropulvis/pseuds/astropulvis
Summary: “I think it might work if we climb-”No, stop-“up the tree-”Why would that work-“just outside, and-”any better than what we’ve already-“drop it! Maybe if-”tried, and what if-“it opens to a page, it’ll-”we damage it?“work better than before!”No, no, no. That’s a horrible idea.“Do you have a better one?”--Vergil has DID and grew up in the underworld following Eva's death. Eva was a witch, and the book Vergil carries around has been passed down through her family for generations and is full of spells and incantations.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 19





	1. Mother

**Author's Note:**

> obsessed with this idea, will add more characters as necessary.

_I can’t get Mother’s book to work,_ whispers the other voice in his head. Vergil has been puzzling over the book, their mother’s Grimoire, for weeks. They can both recall how she used it, but they had never gotten far enough in their studies to be allowed to try themselves. _It isn’t cooperating._

“What have you tried?” Vergil asks aloud, flipping through the suspiciously blank pages with mild curiosity. He can feel the other’s frustration, a broiling sea under exterior calm. They are 10 years old, today. They’ve been trapped in Hell, alone, for nearly two years. 

_I have opened the pages. I have written things myself. I read what it showed me. Nothing happened._ Vergil runs a hand over the rough parchment as he listens, considering carefully how they might proceed. They’ve been puzzling over their witchery in what little free time they have, picking apart what knowledge their mother left them. They have discovered some things, they’ve used the book unintentionally a few times, but simply getting it to cooperate has been an issue. The other, briefly, takes his hands, closes the book, and lets it fall open again. The words that appear on the pages swim before their eyes, and they both groan, shutting the cover quickly. Looking at pages like that for too long usually gives them a headache. 

“The book won’t let us read if we just try to open it. If we let it fall open, sometimes it gives us a page, but we usually can’t read it.”

_Right._

Vergil puzzles over this, running his hands over the raised designs on the cover. The Grimoire is special, an heirloom handed down through their mother’s family only to eventually land in their small, unpracticed hands. It means the same thing to both of them. 

“I think we should drop it.” 

_What?_ The other is incredulous.

“I think it might work if we climb-” _No, stop-_ “up the tree-” _Why would that work-_ “just outside, and-” _any better than what we’ve already-_ “drop it! Maybe if-” _tried, and what if-_ “it opens to a page, it’ll-” _we damage it?_ “work better than before!” 

_No, no, no. That’s a horrible idea._

“Do you have a better one?” 

The other doesn’t respond. Smug, Vergil picks himself from the floor of their make-shift home, grabs hold of the Yamato’s scabbard (just in case), and peaks his head out of the entrance to their cave. He’s not keen to venture out of there’s demons around, nor is he really keen to get in a fight right about now, but… the area just outside of their home seems to be more or less deserted. Sure of his idea, he tucks the book under his arm, and slips out. 

The tree in question is a large, ugly, gnarled thing. The black honey-comb structure of its trunk, however, make it easy to climb. It takes a bit of maneuvering to secure the sword, and a little more maneuvering (and protest from the other) before he settles on simply biting down on the spine of the book. With practiced ease, he climbs up as high as he can manage without fear of snapping a limb, and scoots out onto the branch. Careful to avoid the spiny, stinging leaves, he settles about halfway out, sits up, and holds the book for a moment. The other protests, but he pays no heed. 

He takes a deep breath, puffs out his chest a little, and…

The book falls, landing on the dark, damp ground beneath the tree with a wet thud, spine flat on the ground. As if caught in a wind, the pages flip on their own, and the other finally, finally, stops complaining. They watch with growing excitement as it settles on a page so brilliantly and distinctively decorated, that they can identify the witch who created it before their feet even touch the ground. 

Clambering as quickly as possible out of the tree, they rush towards the book, crouching before it. 

_Mother._

The pages are covered almost entirely by a watercolour illustration of a beach. It shifts, moves as though it were real. The waves lap at the shore, the setting sun casts a pinkish glow across the water, and they can almost hear the squawking of seagulls, the sound of muffled voices. As their mouth begins to form the words scrawled across the sky in vivid, looping red ink, the ugly, dim world around them falls away. What they speak isn’t English- it’s something far older, far more powerful than any human tongue has ever been, and it feels as electric, as all encompassing as it ever does. It’s a poem, a song of loneliness, an offer of companionship. 

In the scene on the page, they look around. A woman stands at the edge of the ocean, her long, robe falling loosely down her arms. She’s removed her sandals, tied her long, blonde hair into a neat bun, and rolled her pants up just enough to keep them from getting wet. The water laps at her feet, and when she notices them, she turns, smiling warmly. Her poem weaves through the scene, as physical as the ground beneath their bruised knees. She approaches, her presence feeling so strongly of home it’s easy to forget that she’s gone. She crouches, eyes sparkling in the knowing way that they always did, and she mouths something that they can’t hear. And then, she takes their hand. 

The book snaps shut. 

A force, unfamiliar to them and altogether alien, shoots them backwards. There’s a thud against the tree trunk that Vergil feels against his back as clear as he can feel his own back against the dirt. 

“What happened?” says the other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> am willing to clarify in the comments any aspects of the au. should be noted v will not be referred to as v for most, if not all of this fic. however, the 'other' is v.


	2. The Other

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “She must think we’re lonely.” 
> 
> “Are we?”

Startled, dazed, looking for all the world like a normal _human_ boy, another child stares back at him in confusion. Startled, equally confused, Vergil clutches the sword. He watches the other boy mirror his motion, seeming somewhat terrified when he comes up empty handed. 

And… he feels that terror, in the same way he feels the other in his head. 

They put the pieces together at the same moment, fear falling away as they look, startled, at the book. It rests innocently where it fell, cover closed, and were the evidence not before them, they may not have believed it to be functional. 

“It’s-”

“-You.” 

Cautious, Vergil approaches the other boy. His hair is long, stark white against pale skin, and he’s _gaunt_. Vergil thinks he looks something like a skeleton, just bones like in the medical textbooks Father kept in his study. The other is tense, but curious, an emotion he knows they share. Grabbing the book for safe keeping, Vergil sets himself down cross legged in front of the other. 

“I should get the book,” the boy states all too quickly. The rush of irritation from him is palpable, and Vergil returns it with his own. 

“It’s mine,” he replies, gripping it tighter. 

“Then I should get the sword.” 

“No, it’s mine.” 

“It’s _ours,_ so is the book. I should get one of them.” 

He doesn’t like that, as a concept. But… he didn’t have a problem sharing his things when the other boy was in his head, did he? He considers the book, considers the sword, considers the ghoulish boy in front of him. He had considered them to be the same, until now. When the other boy only lived in his head, only used his hands and his mouth and his feet, he had considered them to be the same. They aren't, though, are they? 

“You won’t run away with it, will you?” Vergil asks, though he knows the answer is a resounding ‘no’. There’s nowhere to go. They’re safer together. 

“Only if you won’t run off with the sword.” Fair enough. 

“Deal.” 

With some hesitation, Vergil hands the book to the other. He grabs it, clutches it tight to his chest, and the tension seems to drain out of both of them. The other was always more attached to the book than he was, anyway. It was a gift from Mother- Vergil isn’t entirely sure how he feels about her anymore. The other insists she was kind and loving, but he only recalls her anger. Quick and fierce, acting after things he can’t recall doing. He thinks she might have been evil. The other doesn’t agree, but he thinks that’s alright. The sword though, the sword was from Father. It was a precious thing. It saved them, protects them from harm. He thinks it's much more important than the book. 

“Mother isn’t evil,” the other says to him, out loud. Vergil frowns. 

“I didn’t say she was.” 

“You were thinking very loudly. She isn’t evil, she’s kind.” Vergil doubts that. They argue about this often, though. Neither of them get very far.

“Not to me.” Was that distinction important? Vergil isn’t sure. “We should go inside before the bugs come back. Or the reapers.” The other is displeased with him, but he seems to at least be in agreement that they should get inside. Vergil gets to his feet, and…

The other struggles. He tries, loses his balance, and drops the book as he tries to catch himself on the ground. Embarrassed. Collecting himself and their book, he tries again, this time managing to get to his feet. He seems… unsteady. Vergil thinks this is strange, and the other seems to be equally confused by it. He follows close behind as they make their way back to the hidden entrance of their cave, though he has some difficulty keeping up. Vergil can feel the dirt under the other’s feet and the weakness in his legs as clearly as he can feel the dirt between his toes and the strength in his own stride, not that he'd ever considered himself to be strong. Perhaps that's something the other thinks. He's not sure. The dual sensation is strange to him though, and the other agrees wordlessly. 

They slip inside, settle across from each other on the ground again. Vergil sets the sword horizontally across his lap, and the other keeps the book tight to his chest. He’s- he’s scrawny, small, weak in a way Vergil has difficulty understanding. 

“You were in my head,” he says, a statement of fact more than a question. “You’re still in my head, I can feel you.” 

The other eyes him, the book, the sword. That curiosity again, some apprehension. This is new and exciting and little bit terrifying for both of them.

“Mother’s page was about loneliness,” the other says. Vergil catches him rubbing his thumb on the cover of the book, an action, he realizes, he’s unknowingly mirroring with the Yamato. They stop in time. Curious. 

“She must think we’re lonely.” 

“Are we?” 

They both know the answer to that question. The underworld is no place for a half-human child, and it's especially no place for a half-human child to live _alone._ It’s been uncomfortable, even if they’ve had each other. Having someone in your head is far different from having someone you can touch, someone who can sit beside you.

In sync, seeming to reach the same conclusion, they reach out, hands meeting, briefly, in the space between them. They recoil, the dual sensation confusing and strange, but… Their hands meet again. The other is cold to the touch. His own hand is warm. It doesn’t quite feel as though his own hand is touching his skin- the other’s sensations are identifiably different, filtered through a perception that is alien to him, and- 

Oh, okay. 

The other sets the book on the ground, shifts forward until their knees bump together. When he picks it up, he sets it open across both their laps, the empty page staring back up at them. An invitation, a chance to create. He can feel the suggestion leaking from the pages as intensely as the other does. Their eyes meet. Agreement. 

“We should write.” Yes, they should. The shadow in their inner space bumps against their consciousness, warm, soft, familiar. Perhaps they can let her out, too?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> will be getting in to the nitty gritty of how the physical splitting works. magical did is fun and cool and im having a hell of a time writing it thank you for reading


End file.
